Promise me forever - The Lost Lords Trilogy 03

by Lorraine Heath

  Which he didn’t think would take much effort, since several footmen had already taken the trunks and bags into the house. “Since I’ve never had a guest here,” Tom began, not counting the previous Lady Sachse as a guest since she’d actually been in residence, “I’m a little new at this, but feel free simply to make yourselves at home.”

  “We’ll be fine, Tom,” Lydia assured him. “Don’t feel that you have to impress us with any formality.”

  “Don’t get me started with bad habits that I won’t be able to continue,” he told her. “I might as well learn the right way to do it.”

  “The easiest path is to take a wife who is capable of handling it all for you,” Rhys said, which earned him a slap on the arm from Lydia.

  “What? I only speak true,” Rhys said. “Domestic affairs are the wife’s domain.”

  “But not the reason to marry. One marries for love.”

  Rhys met Tom’s gaze. “Forget I said anything.”

  They walked up the stone steps. A footman opened the door. The ladies walked inside, Tom and Rhys following.

  The butler, stiff and formal, was waiting at attention. “My lord, welcome home.”

  “Thank you, Smythe.” Tom had sent word that he was bringing company.

  “I have had rooms prepared for the duke and duchess and Miss Fairfield in the wing that was once occupied by the former countess. I believe they’ll find the accommodations most satisfactory.”

  “Thank you. About dinner—”

  “It will be served at seven as always. I suggest a gathering in the library, where I’ve taken the liberty of stocking the cabinets with your best port, brandy, and whiskey.”

  Tom turned to his guests. “Sounds like everything has been taken care of.”

  “Nothing is more valuable than a competent staff,” Lydia said. “I look forward to freshening up. We’ll see you in an hour in the library, shall we?”

  “All right.”

  Lydia took Lauren’s arm. “Come on, Lauren. I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to get out of my traveling clothes.”

  “I’ll escort you to your rooms, Your Grace,” Smythe said.

  While the ladies ascended the stairs, Rhys stayed behind with Tom. “You don’t want to change out of your traveling clothes?” Tom asked.

  “I do, but I wanted to warn you first that Lydia is taking her chaperoning responsibilities very seriously, but as one who upon occasion managed very successfully to elude the chaperones, I take pity upon your plight and will do all in my power to distract her as the evening grows late.”

  Tom grinned. “I appreciate that.”

  “It’s the least I can do. I recognize a smitten man when I see him, and having nearly lost the love of my life, I know what it is to walk in your shoes.” He held Tom’s gaze. “And since we’ve not had a chance to talk privately since the unfortunate incident with Whithaven—”

  “I really am sorry about that,” Tom interrupted.

  “Whithaven is a pompous, arrogant arse.”

  Tom was taken aback by Rhys’s words.

  “I quite enjoyed seeing you pummel him as he once pummeled me.”

  “He hit you?”

  “Beat me to a bloody pulp. I just wanted you to know that while the time and place may have been a poor choice, I realize that the punch was probably well deserved.”

  Tom shook his head. “No, I’m thinking all three were bad choices.”

  “As you wish.” Rhys glanced around the foyer. “Interesting artwork.”

  “I’ve thought about putting clothes on some of these statues,” Tom admitted.

  “I’d leave them if I were you. Something about the nude form makes it quite provocative.”

  “I’m not used to seeing so much exposed.”

  “It’s art, my friend. And ladies tend to appreciate art.”

  Chapter 15

  L auren gazed out the window on the magnificent gardens. She thought her mother would love to see them. It was obvious that they’d come about over time, and she wondered if their design had been influenced by Tom’s mother or his father. His mother, she decided. They were too gorgeous to have been the desire of someone with the reputation for spitefulness that Tom’s father had. All the statues of naked cavorting couples—those had no doubt been his father’s influence.

  “Rhys and I are just down the hallway,” Lydia said. “We’ll stop by your room within the hour to escort you—”

  “No need. I plan to go down early.”

  “How early? I’ll adjust my schedule.”

  Lauren turned from the window to face her cousin. “Lydia, you’re serving as chaperone was for my mother’s and society’s benefit, not mine.”

  She walked over to the bed and studied the gown that her maid had set out for her. It would do nicely for the evening.

  “You’re not expecting me to look the other way while you engage in inappropriate behavior, are you?” Lydia asked.

  “Of course not,” Lauren said lightly. “I expect you to expect me to behave appropriately. Therefore, you’ll find no need to watch me closely. You can relax, enjoy your time here with Rhys, and if we’re all together, that’s lovely…and if not, I don’t want you worrying.”

  “You don’t plan to behave appropriately, though, do you?”

  “I don’t plan to behave inappropriately, but if the occasion should arise, I’m not certain that I’d be opposed to it.”

  Lydia sighed. “Aunt Elizabeth will kill me if you find yourself in a compromising situation.”

  Lauren smiled. “I’ll kill you if I don’t.”

  “Oh, heavens, what have I gotten myself into?” Lydia held up her hands. “I’ll compromise. I shall be the best chaperone to my ability, but not as diligent as I planned. Rhys no doubt will have a different view. I’ll seek to keep him otherwise occupied as the night draws late.”

  “A fine plan.”

  Tom stared at his reflection in the mirror, wondering when his common sense had deserted him.

  “I could thin it out a bit more, my lord,” his valet said.

  “No,” Tom said, moving his upper lip around to see if he could make his mustache look any more presentable. “I think it’s thin enough.”

  “We could curl the ends up a bit more.”

  “No, they’re curled enough.” Maybe he ought to shave the damned thing off completely, but he knew if he did that, he would look like he wasn’t old enough to issue orders much less run an estate the size of this one. He resisted the urge to run his thumb and forefinger over his mustache and straighten it out. He didn’t think he looked more English. He thought he looked…he closed his eyes. He didn’t want to contemplate what he looked like. The next time he wanted to please Lauren he’d simply give her some flowers, not work to change his appearance.

  “Shall we finish preparing for dinner?” his valet asked.

  “I reckon.”

  “You really look quite fetching, my lord.”

  Fetching made Tom think of a dog with a stick. “Thanks.”

  Lauren arrived in the library ahead of anyone else, finding her way by asking directions of the various footmen and servants. Having been raised in the Ravenleigh house hold, she wasn’t as awed with the grandeur or all the servants as she might have been when she first arrived in England, but she could well imagine that Tom might have found it all quite overwhelming to begin with. The library was an impressive room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a spiral staircase in the corner that led up to another level of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a small seating area in front of a large window. She assumed it offered as breathtaking a view of the gardens and surrounding countryside as the guest bedroom she’d been given. Strange how she was suddenly viewing the green rolling hills she’d taken for granted as breathtaking.

  A massive desk was set before the large fireplace, and she visualized Tom working at it, studying his ledgers and accounts. She envisioned herself curled up in the nearby chair, reading Dickens or Austen or Alcott. Th
e room seemed peaceful as though it had retained none of the harshness or cruelty for which its former master was known. Perhaps he’d seldom inhabited the room. Maybe it had been favored by Tom’s mother. Certainly it couldn’t have been favored by the latest Lady Sachse as she’d only recently begun to read.

  She heard the door click quietly open and turned from her musings to watch as Tom, lord of the manor, strode into the room, wearing a black tailcoat and trousers, while everything else—silk waistcoat, shirt, cravat—was a pristine white that brought out the swarthiness of his complexion. She wondered if, over time, the bronze hint of his skin would fade as he spent more and more time indoors, or would he always remain a man of the outside, even here. As he grew nearer, she realized something about him was different—

  “Oh!” She slapped her hand over her mouth to prevent the bubble of laughter that she was certain would insult him from escaping.

  His mustache, thinned and curling up on the ends, twitched, and the hard press of his lips told her that he wasn’t exactly pleased with the results of his efforts to follow her advice. It had been a ghastly mistake. What ever had made her suggest it to begin with? It didn’t make him look more English or less Western; it simply made him look less like Tom.

  Gnawing on her bottom lip, she refrained from making any sort of comment that might make him suddenly self-conscious although judging by the red beneath his chin, he was already feeling a measure of embarrassment.

  “Where are the others?” he asked.

  “Still getting ready, I suppose.”

  He walked past her to a table where several crystal decanters were lined up. “Brandy?” he asked.

  “Just a bit.”

  She walked over to where he stood, studied his death grip on the decanter as he poured. When he set the crystal down, she touched his arm, causing him to turn toward her. “It’s not that bad,” she offered.

  “It’s damned awful. It makes me look ridiculous. Now I know how Sampson felt when his hair was cut: weak and—”

  “You’re not weak, Tom. Your strength has nothing to do with the hair on your face.” Reaching up, she pressed her fingers to the whiskers above his lip, felt his warm breath waft over her knuckles as she slowly outlined what remained of his mustache until she reached the curled ends and very cautiously, very gingerly unfurled them until they were once again framing either side of his mouth. She watched his Adam’s apple ride up and down as he swallowed. Lifting her gaze to his, she saw his eyes had darkened to the hue of a starless sky.

  “It shouldn’t take long to look as it did before, should it?” she asked, surprised by the rasping timbre of her voice.

  “No.” His voice was gravely, rough. “Not having a chaperone would be good right about now.”

  She backed up a step, the scent of him as intoxicating as the brew he’d just poured. “Unfortunately, I expect she’ll show up any second.”

  Nodding, he grabbed a glass, downed its contents in one long swallow, and set about pouring another one. “What do you think of the house?” he asked, refilling his glass and filling another one. Picking up both, he handed her one.

  “House doesn’t seem like a big enough word for this place. Manor, residence—”

  “But not home,” he said, moving over to the window as though he realized the danger of standing too close to her for much longer, that his guests would stride into this room and find Lauren in an awkward, compromising position.

  “No, not home. But it could be, I think.”

  “It’s cold, there’s always a chill in the air.”

  “That’s common in the older manors. It’s as though they absorb winter and slowly release it through the summer. I was always walking around Ravenleigh’s with a shawl or blanket draped over my shoulders, and numerous fires were always going throughout the manor even in summer.” She took a sip of the brandy. “You have a lovely garden.”

  “I can’t take credit for it. I can’t take credit for most of this.”

  “You can’t take credit for what it was, but you will certainly be able to take credit for what it becomes within your capable hands.”

  He studied her so intently that she wondered what her words might have conveyed…then it dawned on her: capable hands. Yes, he had very capable hands, and well he knew it, and he was no doubt remembering what she would forever be unable to forget.

  “Is that a portrait of your mother?” she asked referring to the gilt-framed painting hanging on the wall above the fireplace behind the desk, needing to turn her mind away from the thoughts that would very easily lead her back down the road to seduction.

  “Yes.”

  “She was very pretty.”

  “But sad-looking, don’t you think?”

  “People generally don’t smile when they’re having their portraits painted, Tom.”

  “It’s not the lack of a smile; it’s her eyes. She looks miserable. I wonder why she didn’t leave him, why she didn’t just stay in America. Why she came back.”

  “Maybe she loved living here, thought she would miss it too much.” She shook her head, even as she spoke the words. “I can’t imagine her missing anything more than she would have missed her son.”

  “So you think she should have chosen me over England?”

  His voice contained an undercurrent, and she felt as though she’d rushed headlong into a trap, a trap that she had created, set into position. Choose a place over a person? Choose a way of life…

  She shook her head. They were discussing his mother. Not her. “Maybe she was afraid that your father would come after her, after you. My God, Tom, she told people you were dead. She figured out how to make you disappear from your father’s life, but not herself.” She looked back at the portrait. “You have her eyes, but without the sadness.”

  “I expect I have less to be sad about.”

  She looked over at him, his eyes, beautifully deep brown, always intense, were on her. “I remember that first day I met you in Fortune. I thought they looked sad then.”

  “Because your mother came around to the back of the store before I could finish unbuttoning your bodice.”

  “No, Tom, they contained sadness before that. How old were you when they put you on the orphan train?”

  “Fourteen. When the people who were taking care of me—I always called them Mother and Father”—he shook his head—“I feel stupid now, but I never realized that the fact that we had different last names was significant. I just thought I was special—”

  “You are special,” she said.

  “Well, that’s debatable. Anyway, when they died, no one knew what to do with me. They had no other family. So the Children’s Aid Society gave me a cardboard suitcase to put all my belongings in. The next thing I knew I was on a train. Most of the kids were younger, so much younger, Lauren. Crying, scared, not knowing what was going to happen to them.”

  “You said you walked to Fortune, but I never asked from where.”

  “You sure remember a lot of what I told you.”

  “I think I remember everything. Where did the orphan train take you?” she asked, thinking he might be trying to avoid the question. She had so many, wanted to know what she’d always wanted to know: everything about his life.

  “A family took me at Arkansas.”

  “Took you?”

  “Best way to describe it. It was humiliating. They’d put us on this rickety wooden stage. People would walk by, squeezing our arms to see how strong we were, opening our mouths to look at our teeth, like we were no better than livestock. And I think to some folks, that’s exactly what we were. I think the Society had good intentions, wanting to find good homes for the lost children, but I think a good many people saw the kids on the train as nothing more than cheap labor.

  “After they’d do their inspecting, when they were satisfied, they’d just pull a boy or girl off the stage. Bad as traveling on the orphan train was, most still went kicking and screaming off that stage.”

  His eyes had taken
on a distant look, and she didn’t think he was aware that his grip on the glass had tightened until his knuckles were almost white.

  “But you got away and went to Texas.”

  He gave her a sad smile. “Yes, I did.”

  “I’m sorry they treated you badly, Tom. That you had such a hard life.”

  The sadness retreated from his eyes as they grew warm. “If I hadn’t, I never would have met you. It was all worth it, darlin’, for a night in your arms. And I sure wouldn’t mind having another.”

  Before she could respond, he cupped her cheek with his free hand, leaned over, and kissed her, passionately, deeply, a man who did nothing in half measures.

  The door clicked open, and she and Tom both jumped as Lydia and Rhys waltzed into the room, arm in arm, as though totally oblivious to the sensual tension that had begun to radiate only a few seconds earlier. Perhaps Lauren had mistaken her ability to control Tom, her conviction that she was not in need of a chaperone. Based on the dew she felt gathering between her breasts as her body heated with desire, she might very well be in need of more than one chaperone.

  “Forgive our tardiness, my lord,” Lydia said. “I decided to take a quick nap, and Rhys didn’t have the heart to awaken me when he should have.”

  “Would you care for something to drink?” Tom asked, his voice sounding almost normal, only a hint of the hoarseness remaining.

  “I’ll take some brandy,” Rhys said, walking to the table of decanters where Tom joined him.

  Lauren strolled over to Lydia.

  “The blush becomes you,” Lydia said, her mouth twitching as she fought not to smile.

  “It’s the brandy,” Lauren said. “It warms me.”

  “Considering how you both jumped as we entered, I suspect it was something else entirely warming you.”

  Lauren leaned close and whispered harshly, “Well, I don’t believe for a moment that you were napping.”

  “Believe what you will.”

  “I’m not the only one with a red hue to my skin.”

  “Ah, yes, dear cousin, but the difference is that I’m married, and so a flush upon my flesh is perfectly acceptable.”